Gerudo Legend
by TheDarkDrag0n
Summary: A King is born.


_Golden child,_  
 _Lion boy;_  
 _Tell me what it's like to conquer._

 _Fearless child, Broken boy;_  
 _Tell me what it's like to burn._

Poem by Gallixie, via Tumblr.

By Gerudo culture, women leave their village in order to search for a mate out of necessity. All Gerudo tribes are female strictly, and daughters are sent back to the tribes to be raised and serve an obligatory five years in the military.

But, once every century or so, a _voe_ is born to a Gerudo woman.

This _voe_ is allowed to stay in his mother's tribe, but has to serve eight years in the military. He stays either until his service is over, or until he reaches manhood. Twenty years, according to Gerudo standards.

Sometimes, more than one century passes in which a _voe_ is born. For some reason, this causes a great trepidation in the hearts of the great Gerudo tribes, but even more so when the _voe_ is finally born. There have been many tales surrounding the mysteriousness surrounding the births of these males, but it is said that, are each millennia, a balance in the Gerudo lineage shifts. The Gerudo are anything if not consistent, so it is understandable that they should be alarmed if this male Gerudo is not born.

Which is why, when Moabin of the Southern Gerudo Tribe returns to her mother and her homeland and births a son, the whole of the Gerudo Kingdom is shaken.

 _"Sa'oten,"_ her grandmother hissed in the delivery tent, recoiling from the screaming newborn. _"Orr vehvi."_

 _Good heavens. Child of the Night._

An uncommon phrase, so ancient that Moabin and her mother did not understand it. And they did not understand why, as the child grew, the elders became more and more wary of him, testing him, scorning him. He was strong, so powerful even among the Gerudo. At age six, the child ventured too far into the desert chasing a juvenile Sand Seal and came upon a Molduga. Certain death for a child his age. But he returned home that night covered in blood, the still-beating heart of a Molduga clenched between his small fists.

Moabin loved her son, her little Lion boy, but as the rest of the Gerudo tribes became more aware of him, her paranoia grew. Her son was no fool, either; he watched mothers usher their children away from him, felt the wary eyes on him the second he turned, saw how the women of the military backed away when he picked up a sword. They did not like him. He was not welcome. He was not _welcome._

He could have stayed until he reached manhood. Out of the military by age fifteen, he could have served longer and climbed the ranks of the military to the Royal Guard if he truly wished it, no matter the opposition of the elders. It was what his mother would have wanted. His grandmother hated everything he did, but that would have really put the icing on top of the cake, and how he dearly loved to go against his grandmother. But the desert was slowly choking him. A lion had nothing to be king of here. The sand dunes rolled lazily where they wished, and this kingdom of women were weak at heart behind that brazen facade. He knew that better than anything, anyone. There was something in his heart that boiled as he looked out onto the horizon, as he watched the sun set red and blazing, something that shook him to his core and made his hairline wet and his hand burn.

So he left. Moabin was the only thing holding him to this putrid little dot in the sand, and she did not beg him to stay. If anything, she seemed relieved when he suggested such a thing after his service in the military was up.

"Do not sign us off, my golden child," she whispered on the night of his departure, running a hand down his long braid. He was a good foot taller than her, and he had to bend at the waist to catch her words. The last he would hear from his dear mother.

"You have a home here." She pressed his hand to the center of her chest, eyes tightening against tears. Again, that feigned brazenness. "Our people may not love you, but I do. Know that I will always have a heart for you, my boy."

And then he was off across the dunes, stealing away into the darkness. A Gerudo is built for the most extreme conditions; the fierce fangs of the cold glanced off his skin harmlessly just as the beating of the sun did during the day, only tanning him a shade darker. The desert was abundant with oasis for those who knew their way around, and the young voe only had to stop to relieve himself and scoop water on his trek out of the land of his people. It took him three full days of nonstop walking.

The land that was Hyrule was much more interesting than the desert. There were many different races of beings, many nomadic people that he met and briefly made acquaintance with. No one scrutinized him despite the rarity of being male and Gerudo, and he was generally welcomed wherever he went. His hunger for scouring the land grew the more he traveled, and he became quite the nomad himself. He garnered a few strong and loyal companions that followed him until he finally reached the heart of Hyrule.

Something went wrong along this journey to the castle. Turned hard in him. His companions grew a bit in number, about twenty strong. They unofficially made him their ringleader, and there was something delicious about that position that, although satisfying, left him wanting. There was something more for him, and he knew it.

So, when his pacing of Castletown finally came to fruition and the crowds gathered and roared as one for the royal Hyrulian family, he was utterly seized.

It was the first time Ganondorf desired to kill another person.

He stood much higher among those in the crowd. The little princess riding in carriage turned big, righteous blue eyes upon his, and a trickle like lava went down his spine. She reminded him of his homeland. Those hideous glares that followed him from every waking hour into his dreams.

"Princess Zelda," they squealed lovingly, throwing Silent Princesses and lavender and an assortment of other flowers into her midst.

He tasted the name on his tongue. It burned disgustingly, and his lips curled downward around it. How could he feel so threatened by a child no more than five? It was a feeling he would not forget.

But nothing else set him on fire as much as a Hylian boy that opposed him and his new settlement. The growth of his followers was immense; there was a need for roots, and some ruins tucked into the forest between Kakariko and the castle was ideal. But this Hylian, just passing through, did not let a floating remark go unnoticed.

Something about that wretched little thing they called their princess.

The boy cut through ranks of his men, and Ganondorf wasn't even there until he saw the boy's back, walking away unscathed and too far off to pursue.

"Said to watch who we commit treason 'round next time, and that we wouldn't get off so easy. His name was Link."

What made him the angriest was the fact that Link did not kill a single man of his. What a game the boy had made out of him.

Ganondorf did not remember when they started to really pillage any of the villages, but that it was after that encounter with who he came to be familiar with as the Hero. He did not remember when his men began to change, shedding the skin of their people to become something much more grotesque until "people" became an inappropriate term for them. He did not remember when their voices reduced to guttural grunts and squalls, incapable of speech, only of the simple command to kill.

Half of him slaughtered those people and burned those towns just to see the fool come rushing in. The possessor of Courage. Without Wisdom, he was actually quite vulnerable, no matter the splendor of his reputation throughout the kingdom. This became more and more apparent as he watched Link against Ganondorf's most powerful underlings. And underlings they were, grooming the boy for his eventual battle against the King of Darkness.

Ganondorf knew he was a king, even from a young age. His mother knew it, calling him her Lion. The Gerudo feared him even from infancy, and rightfully so. He prowled Hyrule hungrily, and insofar, knew no opposition. The fire behind his breastbone continued to cultivate, nurtured by his thirst for Power. It coiled inside him, a spirit not quite his own, demanding things within him. The more he fed it, the greater its hunger became. Insatiable. That's what he was.

Zelda had grown quite a bit. Damnably so, and the force within him told him that she was also in search of the Hero. It was about time he had his way with Link, anyway. The time for biding was over.

And yet they found him first. He thought of destroying the Princess' home and friends, of taking what from her what he had never had. They had, after all, been condemned to the same fate. Each other.

They found him, together. The thing inside him reared, ugly, fighting against whatever it was inside them. He knew they felt it; the way they slowly shifted their stances, disgustingly in sync with the other. It seemed he was too late to isolate the Hero. _Damn_ the goddesses.

Everything was too familiar. Felt too finished before it had even begun. Ganondorf knew exactly what was going to happen, and yet it fueled him even more.

The kingdom of Hyrule in shambles, in the threshold of destruction. Resurrection, to Ganondorf. The world was at his feet. And yet, as the fire rose and continued to ravage the land around them, his hair flowing free like the mane of a lion around him, that finality came upon him. Was everything for naught?

No. Because this wasn't the first time they met, nor would it be the last. This was a victory for Ganondorf. They may succeed in eradicating him from this lifetime, but he stole many things from them. Ganondorf never had anything to lose in the first place. In this way, the Power inside him surged. He was in control of a part of their destiny. A big part.

So, as the Hero sunk that cursed Sword into his chest, the Princess behind him, arrow drawn, he could only smile into those righteous blue eyes.

"This will never be over, Hero," he spat blood, watching it paint the boy's face. "The three of us… We are intertwined."

The land continued to burn, uncontrollable at this rate, and that red mane went up with it. His body perished that day, broken.

But, like the Gerudo tale Moabin always loved to tell,

 _Out of the ashes, the Phoenix never fails to rise again._


End file.
